


nothing more (than your backseat lover)

by fallacied



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Underage Relationship(s), Underage Sex, girl!Junmyeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallacied/pseuds/fallacied
Summary: Zitao has never been one to be able to differentiate between simple affection, and love; between being in love, and being in love with the feeling of love itself. And Junmyeon has always been the undertow, with Zitao the remains of debris swept offshore by her waves and drifting along with the current.





	

Night time in Seoul, or in the area where Zitao lives in any case, is glittering lights of shuttered windows and twenty-four hour convenience stores; the silent hum of weariness and aching bones as office workers trudge back from the nearby subway station. It’s coming close to ten, and all Zitao is looking forward to is dinner (microwaved rice and last night’s leftovers, or maybe just instant ramyun if he’s lazy) and some long-overdue quality time with his yoga mat.  
  
Business at the piercing parlour had been slow as usual, but Lu Han had decided to be an asshole today and misplace the key to the display cases where all the piercing jewellery was stored in ( _“I swear to God, Taozi, it was in my back pocket when I went out to buy lunch.”_ ), causing an otherwise unnecessary trip to the locksmith and two delayed appointments. Zitao’s glad that the day is coming to an end, having had enough surprises for the day.  
  
His apartment block is eerily quiet as he climbs the stairs up to the seventh floor, so he ends up choking on his breathing almost comically when he turns out of the stair landing to see a hunched-over figure curled up in front of his apartment door.  
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
The figure stirs, sitting up and bringing pale hands up to rub at sleepy, half-closed eyes, “Oh, you’re back.”  
  
Zitao lets out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding as he reaches out a hand to help Junmyeon to her feet, “I thought you’d be at home at this time of the day.”  
  
Junmyeon tenses visibly, and it’s only then that Zitao notices her red-rimmed eyes, the tell-tale streaks of tear tracks down her cheeks. “I… Had an argument with my parents.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
He knows not to say anything more, pry any more than he should when it came to Junmyeon’s family issues. That’s just the way it had been ever since they started this relationship of theirs, Junmyeon changing topics whenever he brought up this particular subject, and he’d soon learnt to stop asking at all. He can’t say that he isn’t curious about Junmyeon’s background of course, especially since he’s pretty sure that she’s familiar with his, just that he respects her, respects that she had her own secrets to keep. “Are you -?”  
  
Junmyeon smiles, all at once distant and familiar, “I’m fine. Really.”  
  
Zitao doesn’t push any more for fear of Junmyeon pulling even further away ( _“Women,”_ Lu Han would lament after a shot or two of vodka, _“are so fucking complicated.”_ ), instead pressing a kiss to her bare forehead, before stepping forward to unlock the front door.  
  
The apartment is messier than Zitao would care to admit, but he really does not want to bother himself with cleaning up at the moment, and Junmyeon never seems to mind the clutter anyway. He pushes aside the pile of still-unfolded laundry on the sofa, making a mental note to sort them out and put them away later, before motioning for Junmyeon to take a seat on the worn fabric.  
  
“Yifan went out drinking with Yixing and Lu Han, so we have the place to ourselves tonight,” Zitao says over his shoulder as he heads into the tiny kitchen off the hallway. “I’m going to heat up some food, do you want any?”  
  
“It’s fine, I’m not hungry.” is the reply he gets before he hears the sound of the television being switched on. Zitao microwaves an extra portion of rice anyway because Junmyeon is more likely to eat if he’s the one feeding her, and Zitao figures that it wouldn’t hurt for him to eat a little more if she still refuses.  
  
When he comes out of the kitchen with the bowl of rice in hand, Junmyeon is sitting on the sofa with her legs pulled up and hugged to her chest, chin resting on her folded hands on top of her kneecaps. The television is showing a re-run of the evening news but Junmyeon doesn’t seem to be watching it, her eyes fixed blankly on the screen as if she’s looking through the glass and millions of coloured pixels instead. Her unseeing gaze never falters even when Zitao sits down next to her, and she shifts closer to lean into his side and rest her head on his shoulder, the only sign of acknowledgement she gives to his presence.  
  
They sit in silence for a long while, Zitao alternating between shovelling clumps of rice and vegetables into his mouth, and feeding Junmyeon with small spoonfuls of food pressed to her lips; Junmyeon closing her eyes after the third spoonful and huddling even closer into Zitao’s side, even though he knows that she’s anything but asleep. The monotonous hum of the newscaster’s voice drones on into the quiet of the apartment and Zitao’s on the verge of falling asleep into the remaining food in his bowl, when Junmyeon murmurs a soft, “Zitao, I’m scared” into the curve of his neck.  
  
He startles awake and nearly drops his bowl in the process, giving Junmyeon a questioning look. She wraps her arms around his torso and nuzzles her face into the side of his chest, prompting Zitao to snake an arm around her shoulders. “I’m scared.”  
  
“Of what?” Zitao turns his face slightly, presses his nose into the top of Junmyeon’s head and inhales the faint scent of her fruit-scented shampoo. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
He regrets his words immediately, feeling Junmyeon stiffen ever so slightly in his embrace. “I mean, if you want to, you can… Talk your -” his tongue fumbles over the sentence as he searches for the appropriate words in Korean. “Share with me?” he finishes off lamely, hoping that Junmyeon understands what he means to say, maybe even wanting her to hear the unspoken _you can trust me, you can open up to me_ hiding, twining between his accented words.  
  
She does not reply; takes a shuddering breath as she shifts and adjusts herself, sliding down so that her head is now pillowed on Zitao’s thigh. Junmyeon closes her eyes, shifts a little more so that her face is against Zitao’s lower abdomen, and he can feel the small puffs of heat seeping through the thin cotton and clouding against his skin each time she exhales. He’s not sure what to do now, how to react, and settles on running his fingers through Junmyeon’s hair as soothingly as he can, digits threading in and out of soft black locks as he stretches out for the remote to switch off the television.  
  
“Why can’t I be perfect?” The words are sudden and muffled, a certain sort of quiet despair and brokenness laced through each vowel and consonant. A little indignant even, and Zitao is somewhat reminded of a child on the verge of a temper tantrum. He continues stroking Junmyeon’s hair, rubbing his thumb over the slight jut of her cheekbone the way he knows she likes.  
  
“Because no one is, not even the best of us.”  
  
Zitao looks down at Junmyeon, expecting a sigh, or tears even, but she’s already fallen asleep.  
  
  
  
  
It’s coming close to three a.m. when Zitao opens his eyes, awakening to the sound of Yifan clumsily shutting the front door and staggering his way about the corridor. There’s a muffled curse followed by a succession of loud thumping sounds, and Zitao laughs to himself, easily picturing Yifan knocking into the shoe rack in his half-drunken state. He yawns, stretching his arms up above his head and trying to work out the kink in his neck, careful not to move his body too much. Junmyeon’s still sound asleep, mouth slightly open and brows furrowed in a half-formed frown, and Zitao can’t bear to wake her up and move her to an actual bed, even though his thigh is prickling uncomfortably, his legs having long numbed from the added weight.  
  
“Taozi?” Yifan calls as he stumbles into the living room, looking surprisingly put-together despite the red flush of his cheeks and a small stain down the front of his shirt. “Taozi, what are you doing up so late - Oh.”  
  
Zitao turns to give him a glare, pressing his index finger to his lips as he gestures at Junmyeon curled up in his lap. There’s an uncomfortable silence as Yifan pauses in the middle of the living room on his way to his own room, staring long and hard at Junmyeon, at her slight figure in its fetal position. Zitao frowns, both impatient and annoyed, “Ge, stop it.”  
  
“You - “ Yifan stops, sighing and shaking his head as if to say _forget it_. “At least let her sleep on your bed or something.”  
  
Although still somewhat annoyed by the older man, Zitao nods and gets to his feet carefully, gathering Junmyeon into his arms and carrying her bridal-style into his room, smiling a little at the way her head lolls against his chest and she snuggles closer to him in her unconscious state. Yifan stands in the doorway, watching in silence as Zitao lays Junmyeon down on his bed and tucks her in, handling her the way he would with an expensive piece of jewellery.  
  
“Do you think she’ll stay?” Yifan’s low voice breaks through the silence. Zitao pauses in his stroking of Junmyeon’s hair, a rush of - anger? indignance? fear? - filling him at the implications, the weight of Yifan’s words.  
  
He straightens up, pivoting around to look over at Yifan’s tall figure silhouetted in the dingy yellow light of the corridor. “Ge, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.” He turns back and starts to change out of his work clothes, rummaging around his closet for a towel and clean clothes, inwardly cursing when he remembers that the clean laundry is still piled up on the sofa outside. Yifan is still staring at him in that intense way of his, gaze burning into Zitao’s skin and igniting the handful of doubts that he keeps hidden away inside him.  
  
“Stop lying to yourself, Taozi.” a pause. Another sigh. “Don’t stay up too late, you have work tomorrow. Good night.”  
  
By the time Zitao’s dug out a clean towel and turned around, Yifan has long gone, leaving behind the reek of stale alcohol and yet another tiny seed of doubt planted into Zitao’s head, soon to germinate and flourish into fear.  
  
  
  
  
There was a single ground rule of sorts that Junmyeon had set when they’d first started their relationship. “Please don’t -” Junmyeon had paused, gaze flickering to Zitao’s for a split second before shifting away to focus on her hands, the area of wall behind Zitao’s head, her knees peeking out from beneath her skirt. Anywhere, everywhere, but not meeting Zitao’s eyes. “If you ever see me outside, out in public, please pretend that we’re strangers.”  
  
Zitao had frowned, a mixture of hurt and confusion filling his head, because they - they’re together, aren’t they? They’re dating, in a relationship, whatever else there is to call this thing they have between them. So why does Junmyeon seem to want to hide this fact?  
  
The corner of Junmyeon’s eye had twitched at his questions, the way it always does, Zitao had long learned, when she was nervous or afraid or a mixture of both. She’d grabbed Zitao’s hand, laced their fingers together, whispering “Please, Zitao? Please, just promise me this one thing.” in such a desperate tone that Zitao had found himself agreeing to her request before he could even process the words properly in his head.  
  
Now that he thinks back on it, he supposes that it was worth it, the ache that had throbbed so painfully behind his ribcage, to see the smile that Junmyeon had given him then. Genuine, wide with relief, happy even. They’d never talked about it after that, just like how they never talk about Junmyeon’s family, about her school life, about how she’s always so stressed out. An unspoken boundary of sorts, one that is not to be crossed at any cost.  
  
Zitao rolls on his side, gazes over at Junmyeon’s face, tensed and unhappy even in her sleep. He reaches over to rub a thumb over her lips, her brows, smoothing out the frown creases in her skin tenderly. It’s the only thing he can do after all, to help her in his own way despite not knowing a thing about whatever problems she’s facing, providing intimacy and comfort for her. Their entire relationship had been based on this, on Zitao being Junmyeon’s shelter and hideaway, a comforting distraction from what Yifan calls her _first life_ , Zitao being an integral part of her second.  
  
And maybe, put that way, it hurts. A lot. But Zitao has never been one to be able to differentiate between simple affection, and love; between being in love, and being in love with the feeling of love itself. It’s more simple, after all, to leave things the way they are, to not question what they have at the moment.  
  
Junmyeon has always been the undertow, and Zitao, the remains of debris swept offshore by her waves and drifting along with the current.  
  
  
  
  
Weekday mornings are always the worst, Zitao thinks. Nearly zero business at the parlour, which equates to him and Lu Han idling around and taking stocks repeatedly, with Yixing popping in occasionally from the guitar shop he works in two floors down. Zitao has half a mind to close the shop until the first appointment of the day at two-thirty, maybe even give Lu Han half a day off so he can get some shut-eye in the back room. He figures that they won’t lose out on any business anyway, since the mall is almost entirely devoid of patrons at this time of day.  
  
Zitao’s in the front of the shop locking up the piercing jewelry cases when the glass door to the parlour slides open, and Junmyeon steps in hesitantly. She’s still in her school uniform with an oversized jacket draped over her shoulders, looking more than a little out of place in the dim, goth-themed shop.  
  
“Junmyeon?” Zitao frowns as he straightens up, shoving his keyring back into his pocket. “Don’t you have school?”  
  
"Not today," she smiles and for a split second, Zitao thinks that he sees something (annoyance? fear?) clouding over Junmyeon's eyes. Then, she blinks, leans up on tip-toes to kiss the corner of Zitao's mouth, her face now schooled back into her usual smile. "I want a navel piercing. Think you could help me with that?"  
  
Zitao frowns questioningly but, when Junmyeon offers no explanations as to why she’d suddenly wanted another piercing other than “It was an impromptu decision”, gestures for her to make herself comfortable on the piercing table and heads into the back room to get out the tools needed. He’s well aware that Junmyeon isn’t the type of person to make choices on the spur of the moment, that she prefers careful deliberation to spontaneity, but who is he to question her on this?  
  
They make small talk while Zitao cleans up the area around Junmyeon’s navel with antiseptic and clamps the skin, Junmyeon perched on the edge of the piercing table as she swings her socked feet gently so that they brush up against Zitao’s thighs to whatever rhythm that’s playing out in her head, having set her shoes aside earlier. It’s childishly cute, Zitao think, at least until Junmyeon’s big toe nudges at his crotch purposefully. Zitao gets a shock, fumbling a little where he’s about to pierce the needle through Junmyeon’s skin and squeaking out an embarrassingly high-pitched “Fuck, Junmyeon.”  
  
“Yes?” She smiles back sweetly at him, continuing her assault on his thighs, and Zitao takes advantage of Junmyeon’s relaxed state to push the needle through the skin he’d clamped earlier. To her credit, Junmyeon doesn’t cry out, just winces ever so slightly at the slide of metal through flesh.  
  
“Sorry,” Zitao smooths a latex-covered thumb over the side of Junmyeon’s navel in apology. “Just let me put the barbell through and it’ll be done.”  
  
Fingers curling into the soft fabric of her skirt, Junmyeon laughs softly, although Zitao can hear the obvious strain in her voice. “I’m fine, it’s just - “ Junmyeon’s nose scrunches up a little as Zitao threads the barbell through the pierced skin and secures it. “I was expecting it to hurt less than when you pierced my nape.”  
  
“You’re too tense, that’s why.” With one last brush of thumb over skin, Zitao stands, stripping off his disposable gloves and setting his tray of piercing tools aside, to be cleaned and disinfected later. Junmyeon’s still admiring her new piercing when Zitao’s done, an awed smile on her face as she gently figures the very tip of the barbell. “Everything alright in school?”  
  
A noncommittal shrug, Junmyeon hopping off the table and tucking the creased hem of her uniform shirt back into her skirt’s waistband. “College entrance exams are coming up in a few months, so I’m just a little stressed. You don’t need to worry so much.” She straightens up and smiles widely at Zitao, reaching out a hand to smooth out the frown creases in his forehead before he can start to protest, maybe even nag at her to _get enough sleep, look at those bags beneath your eyes_. “Really, I’m fine! Now, how about we talk about payment for this?”  
  
Less than ten minutes later, Zitao finds himself pressed up against a shelf of boxed needles and studs, sweat beading on his forehead and fingers snarled through tangled black locks as Junmyeon sucks him off in the back room, small hands bracketing the jut of Zitao's hipbones. Her lips look so pretty like this, slick and stretched around Zitao’s cock, and he lets out a low groan when she curls her fingers around the base and flicks her wrist. Stroking once, twice, before her fingers are gone and she’s deep-throating him, barely gagging as she swallows hard around him. It’s not so much them having sex as Junmyeon trying to get Zitao off, and he wonders hazily if her movements have always been so clinical; detached, if she’s even getting anything out of this.  
  
Later on, when Zitao’s leaning against the wall trying to catch his breath after coming, jeans and boxers still gathered around his thighs, he glances up to see Junmyeon standing and brushing her knees off.  
  
“Do you want me to -?” he gestures awkwardly in her direction.  
  
“I’m fine,” Junmyeon flashes a smile at him despite the flush in her cheeks, the way her thighs had been clenched together tensely when she’d stood up. “I need to go, see you soon?”  
  
She lets herself out of the room before Zitao can stop her, and he’s left confused about whether she really is fine; wondering how many times he’s heard variations of that very phrase since she’d came in to get her piercing.  
  
  
  
  
In all honesty, Zitao isn’t very sure why he’s so captivated by Junmyeon.  
  
She looks a lot like his last girlfriend, all petite frame and sweet smiles and vulnerable eyes; looks like someone that Zitao could protect. But unlike his ex-girlfriend, Junmyeon is not delicate, despite her looks. She’d kept a smile on when she’d first went to Zitao’s piercing parlour to get her nape pierced, she likes intimacy but dislikes romance and coddling, and she’d never liked talking about herself. Zitao knows very little about her outside of their relationship, and the lack of knowledge he has rifts a frustrating distance between them.  
  
But Junmyeon, Zitao thinks, is like a puzzle, an enigma. She is a walled-up maze with countless different sections and paths all blocked off from each other, and Zitao is a lone wanderer who is only familiar with a single section. Lost with everywhere else around him leading to a dead end, yet still intrigued by the mystery surrounding him, still determined to solve the puzzle that is Junmyeon.  
  
  
  
  
As the date of the college entrance examinations approaches, the higher Junmyeon’s stress level gets. Zitao can tell from the way her daily messages to him start to dwindle in number, the way she turns up at his apartment or the parlour at odd hours during the weekend asking for sex and intimacy, or doing nothing but curling up next to him and clinging to his side. He indulges Junmyeon without any questions, offering her all his time, his attention, anything else that she needs and he’s able to give.  
  
Yifan sends him disapproving glances and texts full of cautionary words every chance he gets (mostly variations of _are you sure that she's not just using you?_ ), and Zitao studiously ignores them, despite the tiny nagging voice at the back of his head telling him that _what if Yifan's right about Junmyeon? You should probably listen to him._  
  
But Zitao never knows when should be the right time to confront Junmyeon about what their relationship actually is, never knows what words to use or how to put his message across, and so he just leaves it at that. No questions asked, no confrontations made. Yixing comments offhandedly that he's in too deep, and Zitao changes the subject, unsure of how to reply.  
  
Things with Junmyeon go on as per normal. They see each other as often as Junmyeon’s schedule allows, although Zitao is pretty sure that “study breaks” are not meant for having sex with one’s boyfriend in untidy bedrooms or cramped back rooms. Time, time is a luxury, and they are resigned to quick fucks or heavy petting more often than not, unsatisfactory but necessary. Zitao's just glad that Junmyeon is even willing to spend the little free time she has, with him, no matter what her reasons for her actions are.  
  
It's enough for Zitao: the constant contact, the feeling of being important, of being needed. He thinks that if he distracts himself by pouring his all into their relationship at this point of time, maybe he can ignore the doubts already starting to flare up at the the back of his mind, that _maybe you're not as important to Junmyeon as she is to you._  
  
  
  
  
On the morning of Junmyeon's examination day, Zitao contemplates going down to her school and waiting outside the gates to give her a hug and a few encouraging words before she steps into the examination hall. Then, he recalls Junmyeon's ground rule; recalls a time when he had smiled and waved to her when they'd bumped into each other at the subway station. Junmyeon had been with two of her friends at that time, and she'd ignored him.  
  
It wasn't so much the lack of acknowledgement from Junmyeon, than the realisation that Zitao had actually agreed to it in the first place, that really stung. He winces at the memory; decides to text her instead, hoping that he's not too late in sending the message.  
  
Junmyeon doesn't reply, but is all smiles and carefree laughs the next time they meet, wrapping her arms around Zitao's waist as she presses her face into his chest, murmuring that _it's over, it's finally over._  
  
Zitao does the same thing on Junmyeon's high school graduation date, sending a congratulatory text and waiting for her at the parlour with the obligatory bouquet of flowers.  
  
"I skipped a family dinner for this," she tells him later on that night, when they're pressed up against Zitao's bedroom wall in a tangle of sweat-slick skin and uneven heartbeats. There's a playful glint in her eyes as she leans up to mouth at Zitao's adam's apple, fingers slipping downwards to wrap around his cock. "You'd better make it worth it."  
  
  
  
  
("I love you," Zitao says afterwards, when they're curled up together on his bed, arms clasped tight around waist and fingers carding through soft dark hair.  
  
The words feel foreign in his mouth, the consonants too harsh and the vowels too rounded. He's not sure why, but there's a dulled sort of fear rising bitterly in his throat, as if he had just said something wrong.  
  
Junmyeon is silent for a long while, her shoulders tensing ever so slightly. "I know.")  
  
  
  
  
Zitao never expected it, never expected _them_ to end so abruptly. He wakes up to his eight-thirty alarm with arms curling around thin air, a neatly folded note placed next to his alarm clock. _I’m sorry,_ reads Junmyeon’s neat handwriting.  
  
He doesn’t understand. Thinks that maybe, Junmyeon just needs a break, because after all, they’ve been seeing a lot of each other recently, much more than usual. One day passes, two, and Zitao starts to panic when Junmyeon doesn’t reply to any of his texts, doesn’t pick up any of his calls, seemingly disappearing without a trace.  
  
Yifan walks out of his room on Thursday morning to Zitao sitting on the sofa, dialing and redialing Junmyeon’s number on their shared apartment phone. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Zitao’s shoulder as he walks past, pretending not to notice how Zitao’s eyes are red-rimmed, how his bottom lip is wrecked and bloody from being chewed on. Zitao hears the silent “I told you so, Taozi” hanging in the air as Yifan heads out of the apartment for work, and his fingers are trembling hard as he hits the redial key, _"The user you have called is not available. Please try again later."_ playing over and over again in his ear like a broken record.  
  
  
  
  
_hey myeoni are you ok? ㅠㅠ_  
  
junmyeoni ㅠㅠㅠㅠ  
  
junmyeon can we talk?  
  
please at least just tell me what went wrong  
  
was it what i said?  
  
what exactly did i do wrong?? or am i just not good enough??  
  
  
  
  
Zitao gives up after weeks of dial tones and empty message inboxes. Lu Han and Yixing take him out for chicken and beer, shove countless shots of soju in his direction after, in the midst of comforting slaps to his back and consolations of “You deserved better” and “She's not worth you getting upset over”.  
  
Through the haze of alcohol and too much food, Zitao thinks that despite his friends' efforts, nothing can fill in the gap left behind, the feeling of connections lost and links severed. He thinks of clinging attachments ripped apart, of how lives can be compartmentalised into hundreds of tiny boxes, the contents of one section never ever spilling over into another.  
  
He sends out one last text to Junmyeon the next day, and deletes her contact off his phone.  
  
_hope u have a great time in college. keep yourself healthy, i love u :)_  
  
  
  
  
Night time in Seoul, or in the area where Zitao is heading to in any case, is glittering lights of lit-up signages and twenty-four hour convenience stores; the silent thrum of excitement and aching bones after a long day at work buzzing through the air as a steady stream of people move in and out of the nearby subway station. It’s coming close to nine, and all Zitao is looking forward to is dinner and drinks with Yixing, maybe a night of movies and cheap beer later on at Lu Han’s apartment.  
  
He’s waiting impatiently outside the restaurant for Yixing to arrive, when someone taps his arm, calls out an almost bashful “Hey, Taozi.” Junmyeon is standing in front of him when he looks up, a hint of the same smile that Zitao had fallen in love with dancing on her lips. It’s been seven months, seven months and she hasn’t changed much, save for how her hair is dyed a deep red now. Zitao thinks that this is beginning to seem like an episode of some cliched soap opera, one of those sappy romantic ones that Yifan secretly watches when he thinks that Zitao isn’t at home.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he blurts out, a mixture of shock and long-overdue anger and relief welling up inside him. He notices that Junmyeon has a few more piercings in her ear, glinting brightly in the dim street light.  
  
“I’m thinking of getting another piercing soon,” Junmyeon says, lips curling into a smile as if nothing had happened between them, as if them bumping into each other on the street was just a normal occurrence and she hadn’t disappeared from Zitao’s life seven months ago. “Think you could help me with that?”  
  
Zitao’s mouth is dry and his throat feels constricted and he’s thinking of re-attachments, of Junmyeon’s smiles, of lines being re-connected together. He steps forward and envelopes Junmyeon’s slight frame in a hug. “I missed you.”  
  
Junmyeon, Junmyeon will always be the undertow. She will always be the current, unpredictable and ungrounded, and Zitao will always be the debris, the sand, the lost piece of driftwood carried off and swept away by her waves.


End file.
